Alber.  I, he is well, in such a vengers handes, As will not winck at your iniquitie.

Allen.  By heaven and earth my soule is innocent!  Say what you will, I know my conscience.

Fal.—­To be afflicted with a scourge of care, Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.

Turq.  Come, beare him hence! expostulate no more; That heart that could invent such treachery, Can teach his face to brave it cunninglie.

Alen.  I do defie your accusations; Let me have justice, I will answere it.

Vesuv.  So, beare him hence!  I meane to stay behinde, To take possession of his goods and landes For the Dukes use:  it is too manifest.

Allen.  I hope youle answere anything you doe.  My Lord Vesuvio, you shall answere it, And all the rest that use extremities.

Alber.  I, to the Dukes Exchecker, not to you.

[Exeunt omnes; manet Falleria.

Fal.  Thus shades are caught when substances are fled. 
Indeede they have my garments, but my selfe
Am close enough from their discoverie;
But not so close but that my verie soule,
Is ract with tormentes for Pertillos death. 
I am Acteon; I doe beare about,
My hornes of shame and inhumanitie. 
My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter me
With hope of great succeeding benefits,
Now gin to teare my care-tormented heart
With feare of death and tortring punishment. 
These are the stings whenas our consciences
Are stuf’d and clogd with close-concealed crimes. 
Well, I must smoather all these discontentes,
And strive to beare a smoother countenaunce
Then rugged care would willingly permit. 
Ile to the Court to see Allenso free,
That he may then relieve my povertie.

[Exit.

[SCENE IX.]

    Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes.

Con.  Who would have thought of all the men alive That Thomas Merry would have done this deede So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!

1 wat.  Of all the men that live in London walles, I would have thought that Merry had bin free.

2 wat.  Is this the fruites of Saint-like Puritans?  I never like such damn’d hipocrisie.

3 wat.  He would not loase a sermon for a pound,
An oath he thought would rend his iawes in twaine,
An idle word did whet Gods vengeance on;
And yet two murthers were not scripulous. 
Such close illusions God will bring to light,
And overthrowe the workers with his might.

Con.  This is the house; come let us knocke at dore;
I see a light, they are not all in bed: 
                     [Knockes; Rachell comes downe. 
How now, faire maide? is your brother up?

Rach.  He’s not within, sir; would you speake with him?